Those Lonely Little Spaces
by CeeCeeSings
Summary: At the request of CheapTrixie - another TWD Caryl fic. A "missing moments" fic from S3E10 onward. Will be as in-canon as possible through the finale... Carol/Daryl rotating POV, but lots of other character development as well.
1. Blood and Brothers

They are talking about brothers. Well, he is talking about brothers – he and his own. She is listening idly, enjoying the attention this man has been giving her all day. It is…refreshing to feel wanted, desired. Even cavalierly, casually. She is also thinking about brothers as he prattled on, wondering. Wondering where they were. Where _he _was.

Her broken relief at knowing he was still alive is replaced by something she hadn't expected from herself: understanding. She understood why Daryl had left them. Had left this echoing, barren home their group had created. The others – Glenn, Maggie, Beth – didn't appreciate the hold Merle had over Daryl.

"He said you'd understand," Maggie shook her head, refusing to believe it. She had waited; waiting for Carol to scream, to throw something, to feel as betrayed and frustrated as the rest of them are. To punish the memory of Daryl, for abandoning his real family for his blood brother.

But Carol confronts those lonely little spaces she finds over the next few days, those little missing pieces of herself created by Daryl's absence and fills them with the strength she's finally realized she has. She means what she tells Beth. She knows she would turn her back, forever, on Ed, were he still alive. Turn her back and scorn him, and the version of herself that had been Ed's. She misses Daryl, but never blames him.

And now, standing in the prison yard. She and Axel: this odd, funny man with the old-fashioned waxed moustache who really didn't strike Carol as particularly dangerous. Who had thought she was gay because of her shorn hair. A con who is so unworldly and harmless he didn't understand that keeping your hair short might give you those few extra inches you needed to avoid having your head bashed into the wall by a rage-filled husband. Oh yes, Ed had been a hundred times more menacing than this earnest, bumbling convicted felon.

She is not the woman she was a year earlier. She is enjoying the attention from this man, his desire to hold her with his story, to coax a smile onto her face. He nudges her a little, grinning.

"Don't you miss your brother?" _Brothers. _The word echoes in her mind, and then the shots echo in the yard, and she is sprayed with the warm, living blood of the sweet, bumbling harmless con at her side. The force of the bullet embedded in his skull pushes him towards her, his heavier body dragging her to the dusty ground.

Carol wants to live. Without thought, with nothing but the sound of her own blood rushing in her ears and the sound Axel's blood spattering on her face and into the arid ground, she crouches behind the corpse of the man that had been flirting with her thirty seconds ago.

And for a seemingly endless stretch of time, she and the others, her family, are scuttling like bugs stuck on a specimen plate, dodging bullets and the dead, of which there seems to be a never-ending supply. She crouches, clutching her gun, firing, a dead man's blood pouring down her face, mixing with sweat, dripping into her eyes. It adds a rosy sheen to the madness surrounding her.

When it finally ends, as suddenly as it began, they all rise from their spots across the shattered yard. All but one. Axel, lifeless, on the ground. Five minutes dead.

The living coalesce towards each other. Carol sees Maggie's face, hears Beth's intake of breath. She can feel the sticky, hardening gore on the left side of her face and down her neck.

"I'm okay," she rasps. "It's not mine, it's Axel's." She sees her hand is shaking, just a little. She grips her rifle more tightly, refuses to turn around, look at the man's prone form.

"Holy shit," Glenn exclaims, and everyone instinctively raises their guns. But then, Carol sees. They all see. Rick, fraying and wild-eyed. And behind him. Heading towards the group. Daryl and Merle.

_Brothers, _Carol thinks, ruefully.


	2. Follow the Leader

Merle had followed him.

Ever since he can remember, it had been he, Daryl, who followed, tagged after, chased, longed for, reached out to, stumbled towards, yearned for his big brother. Until that moment in the woods. He had been naked, stripped bare, in so many ways. Fed up. Disgusted with Merle, yeah, sure, but more disgusted with himself. He had walked away. _And Merle had followed._

And now. Here they are. Merle, smug in his ability to show his worth. Rick, hollow-eyed and held together with vapors and the faint memory, instinct, really, of the man he'd be before Lori's death. Coming apart at the seams, or, at least, that's how it appeared to Daryl. Trudging back together, towards Daryl's home, such as it was. Towards the people who matter most to him. _The person, _something whispers in his ear, buzzing like a giant mosquito. _The person. _All of these people matter to him; to the man he's become. One matters the most. Something Daryl doesn't bother to think too hard about. It just is.

They are at the gate. All of them. Hershel, who's loped, one-legged, across the grassy yard. Michonne, impassive and inscrutable, viewing Merle with utter contempt. Carl, lankily standing with his hands at his side and his teen years rumbling towards him. Glenn, with his gun still raised, his lean body taut and tense. Daryl is aware. He understands what is going to happen. And though he knows it's justified, his little boy's heart, who had worshipped the 20-year-old ruffian who was now the aging thug next to him, could not but rear its head. _Merle had followed. _

His eyes search for her. She is there. Fear bounces in his stomach when he sees her left side drenched in scarlet. Her eyes are vacant. Maggie and Beth support her.

"Carol!" Rick calls out to her. Nothing. "Maggie! Beth! She okay?" Rick sneaks a glance a Daryl.

"Dunno," Maggie's got her arm around Carol's waist. "She was just talkin', a few seconds ago. The blood…the blood is Axel's," Maggie shakes her head. "They were standin' in the yard, chattin'. He just got gunned down. Fell on top of her. She…she used his body as a shield," Maggie instinctively turns towards the crumpled form in black behind her. Daryl understands it's the body of the awkward con.

"Get her inside, get her something cold to drink," Hershel calmly instructs. "She's had a shock. She did good, but she needs to rest now." His daughters lead Carol away. Beth glances back, giving Daryl a look he can't quite read. The young girl seems angry, disappointed somehow.

"Let us in, man!" Merle rasps suddenly. What are we all standin' around pullin' our puddins' for?"

"Bullshit, Merle," Glenn levels his gun, sighting on the older man. "There's no way you're coming in here."

"Glenn, listen – Merle and Daryl just saved my life. I woulda been toast if they hadn't shown up," Rick's voice is worn, but calm. Daryl catches his eye, nods in appreciation. He knew this wasn't going to be easy. No way it could.

"I'm not letting him in," Glenn's face is a mask of determination. "Hershel, don't do it." The small, bottomless, black hole of Glenn's gun hasn't left Merle's face.

"Glenn, c'mon man," Daryl mumbles, almost unwillingly. He _knows_ what he's asking. He just can't help himself. He can't explain it. Merle is Merle. Merle is his brother. Merle had followed him.

"Daryl! What the hell, man? You just leave, head into the woods, abandon us? Don't even say good-bye to everyone? For what, Daryl? For him? Blood's not everything, man. The past year, with us? Doesn't it count at all?"

Daryl can't look at him. Or at Rick. Or at Merle. The shame is overwhelming. But they have to understand. Merle is part of the package now. Part of him. All or nothin'.

"Glenn," Rick's voice, calm, in control – at least for now. "Glenn, listen. Merle can be an asset. He knows the Governor, knows how he thinks. He's going to help us out, right?" Rick turns to Merle, who shrugs noncommittally. Daryl resists the urge to throttle his big brother. _Never easy. Merle ain't never made _anything _easy._

"Yeah, sure, why not? And for what it's worth, Chinaman –" Merle begins.

"KOREAN," Daryl and Glenn together. They catch each other's eye from either side of the fence, and both men almost smile. Something loosens a little in Daryl's chest. There's a lot that's still a mess, but he and Glenn are alright.

"Shut up, Merle," Rick says, almost conversationally, and trains his own gun on him, as Hershel rolls the gate open.

Rick pushes Merle forward. Merle glances back at Daryl. Says nothing.

Daryl sighs. And follows his big brother.


	3. It's What You Choose

She spent half a day in a daze. Reliving that moment. The moment she was splattered with the warm, living blood of another human. Not the viscous, blackened goo that exploded from the heads of the dead, but wet, running claret, from another person. Someone she'd liked, someone kind. Someone who's dead body had shielded her from death.

She vaguely remembers Daryl's form, Rick's voice calling to her, from beyond the fence. Then Hershel's girls had taken her to her cell, given her cold water to drink and warm water to rinse off her face and neck. They tended to her, these young women she had gotten used to mothering over the past year.

Beth's heart-shaped face, hovering in front her, all large, worried blue eyes. Pulling her soiled tank top over her head and replacing it with the cheerier yellow one.

"It's gonna be okay, Carol," Beth's voice soothed. And her face wavered a bit in the sun streaming through the barred windows, the blond hair darkening slightly and the face losing several years, until it was Sophia sitting on the bed next to her, tending to her bruised cheek.

"It's gonna be okay, Momma," Sophia whispered, smiling. "He's gone now, down to the honky-tonk. He'll be gone for hours…" And Carol drifted away for awhile, to the sound of her dead daughter's voice.

ooooOOOOoooo

And now, another day. They gather, slowly, with the exception of Merle, who is a captive audience. To hear Rick out. To discuss the coming storm.

She doesn't say much, except to muse aloud if they are now assassins. Like the man who murdered Axel. Like the Governor. Is this what life is now? Protect what you have, at all costs? Maybe so. Lest it be gone in an instant, with a gunshot or the sound of teeth tearing into flesh.

She glances over at Daryl, leaning tensely over the railing, as the discussion wages on below. There hasn't been a chance to properly speak to him, but those little spaces of herself tug towards him. Though she is beginning to notice…the strength she's filled them with is not seeping out, but rather crowding aside, to make room for both. Dependence…and independence. A balance.

"Get back here…and DO something!" Hershel's reprimand is for Rick, but Carol feels it too. She cannot fall apart. Not after all of those who've been lost. Or those who've returned.

Sophia's memory, T-Dog's sacrifice, Daryl's return: she must value them. Value herself. Value her influence on those around her. She looks again over at Daryl, unawares. She must do something. For him. For her. For both of them.

ooooOOOOoooo

A few hours later, and the prison is quiet, the argument from this morning merely echoes. She saunters towards his cell, running her hands along the cell gates as she goes, enjoying the feeling of the slight, rhythmic contact of her fingertips against the bars. She is so glad to be alive.

She rounds the corner of his cell. He's sitting there, toying with an arrow, looking surly. So, looking like usual. She hovers in the doorway, letting him get used to the fact that she's there. She smiles gently at him. He's so skittish, like a puppy that's been kicked one too many times.

"I haven't had a chance to say, I'm glad you came back," she moves further into the cell, leans against the wall. She is. So very glad.

He scoffs, deflects the warmth of her words, her glance. Breaks eye contact. The arrow stutters in his hands. "To what? All this?"

"This is our home," she chides him, gently.

He looks up at her, defiant. "This is a tomb."

"That's what T-Dog called it. I thought he was right," she pauses, thinking, remembering. When this place changed for her. "'Til you found me."

She's giving him one of those lonely little spaces, of herself. And she's gratified when the sliver of a smile he bestows on her. She's struck, as she occasionally is, by how boyish he is, despite the grit, the grimness, the crossbow and the muscles lining his arms. The boy still desperately, blindly loyal to his big brother. _Merle, why couldn't you just stay dead? _

"He's your brother," she wants him to understand that she understands. "But he's not good for you." Her eyes fall on the restless arrow, twirling, twirling in his hand.

"Don't let him bring you down. After all, look how far you've come," she holds his glance. His eyes dance away first, indicating the small, dour room around them.

She chuckles, and so does he, shaking his head. His laughter: so rare, so welcome. She walks over to him, pulls the arrow out of his hand. Without hesitating, she places a lingering kiss high on his cheek, near his ear, breathing in the grimy sweat of him.

Before he can flinch, she is back in the doorway. She tosses his arrow back to him. He catches it. It remains still, unmoving, in his lap.

"I was worried about you when we got back. All that blood. Axel," he says.

"I was worried about me too. But I'm not worried anymore," she shrugs. She feels good. "Come and see Judith later, when she wakes up."

"Li'l Asskicker miss me, then?" The small smile is back, then gone.

"We all missed you. This is where you belong," she smiles back, and then she's gone.


	4. Calisthenics

**A/N – My regular readers will know this already: I am a big fan of rotating the POV in my FF. In my HP fic, the story rotates chapter by chapter among the main trio. In my last Caryl fic, and for the most part, in this one, the story flips back and forth between Carol and Daryl, sometimes even reliving a scene from the other character's perspective. However, due to the timeline of "I Ain't a Judas" and when the characters show up in the episode, this chapter is also Carol's (don't worry; Mr. Dixon gets his turn again next round). **

**During the ep, I was intrigued that Carol was a silent (but observant) witness to Merle's "apology" to Michonne. Why was she there? The scene in the episode could have taken place without her; she doesn't say a word on-screen. What does she make of it? That's what I am exploring… ~CeeCee**

Carol stands at the makeshift stove, absentmindedly stirs a batch of what she's come to think of as "Surprise Stew" – the semi-edible glop they have now all learned to subsist on, cobbled together from canned vegetables and fresh squirrel or rabbit.

She remembers, such a long time ago, Andrea scoffing that the women in the group were always relegated to the menial and the mundane tasks of the day. Her friend had always been so determined to prove her worth by measuring up to the men in the group, by fighting, killing…she had missed something vital: the very things the she openly scorned were what kept their humanity intact: cooking meals, providing clean clothes and clean beds, mothering and counseling the individuals in the group, young and old. Domesticizing the barren landscape of this apocalypse. Without these things, they may as well be wolves in the forest, baring their teeth at each other. Or, if not wolves, than walkers.

_Besides, _Carol thinks, shaking her head, _besides…in all due time. We're all called to arms. To the more animalistic sides of our natures. _She, Maggie, and even Beth had taken down more walkers then they could enumerate. There is no longer a need to prove your worth – as a woman, or _because_ you were a woman – anymore. Everyone was valuable. And you kept up, or you died. But Carol is determined that when her time comes, she'll leave with her humanity intact.

Michonne slips silently into the room, interrupting Carol's reverie. _There's someone who's never had to prove her worth, _Carol grins to herself, eyeing the taut strength of the younger woman. She doesn't seem to notice Carol at first, setting herself gracefully on the dusty concrete floor, apparently lost in thought.

"Hungry?" Carol says, softly.

"Shit!" Michonne jumps up, on her feet in under a second. Her large eyes take in Carol, a wooden spoon in hand and a small smile on her face. "Sorry, didn't know you were there." She murmurs.

"Who'd have guessed I could one-up _you_ in the stealthy department?" Carol smiles, hoping not to offend. She'd like to know this woman warrior a little better.

"Not bad," Michonne concedes, "but you'll need something a little more serious than that for follow-through." She nods at the spoon.

Carol laughs, taken off-guard by her volley of banter. Michonne's mask-like face briefly breaks into a sunny smile. _She's really lovely, under all of that emotional armor, _Carol thinks, going back to her Surprise Stew. "Can't tempt you?" She gestures to the pot.

"Not just now," Michonne says. "Mind if I use this space? Everywhere else is too crowded, and it's just too damned hot in the yard now." At Carol's nod and shrug, she drops back down to the floor and starts banging out sit-ups with no apparent effort.

Carol watches her for a few minutes, fascinated by her physical strength, then turns back to making lunch. The woman, both busy with their own tasks, share companionable silence for several minutes. Michonne is starting one-handed push-ups when Merle saunters in, settles himself comfortably at table nearby. He doesn't even acknowledge Carol's presence.

"Don't leave out the cardio," he chides a stonewalling Michonne. She stares straight ahead, focusing on her workout. Carol has to resist the urge to take her pot of very hot Surprise Stew and dump it on Merle's smug face.

"This whole huntin' you down thing? That was just business. Carryin' out orders," Merle explains. Carol's indignation swells in her stomach. _Murder is fine, sure, if you're doin' it for someone else. _Any chance to justify, explain away. Merle is like Ed – a coward in wolf's clothing. Maybe he should just go live in the woods. Alone.

Michonne pauses midway in a sit-up. Finally looks him in the eye. "Like the Gestapo." Her voice dripping with contempt.

Carol listens to his apologies, which, to her ears sound about as authentic as a three-dollar bill. "Anyways, I was hopin' we could let bygones be bygones," he saunters back out, completely uninterested in Michonne's reaction. Both women stare after him, their eyes blazing.

"What a load of bullshit," Michonne breathes, restarting her workout.

"Yeah, and just a slightly larger load than I can take from that man right about now," Carol agrees, swapping her wooden spoon for a large butcher's knife. She crosses in front of Michonne, hurrying to follow Merle.

"What are you plannin' with that?" Michonne eyes Carol with interest, but makes no attempt to stop her.

"A little effective follow-through," Carol smiles grimly. "Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt him. Just make him aware that I'm keenly interested in the concept."

"I'll keep an eye on the stew for you," Michonne calls after her, as she dashes quietly after Daryl's big brother.

ooooOOOOoooo

He's only a few yards ahead of her, moseying down the abandoned corridor.

"Merle!" She calls out, keeping her voice light. "You forgot to grab some lunch!"

He spins, an expectant grin on his face, and Carol uses the element of surprise to ram him against the wall. She knows she only has a few seconds; Merle outweighs her by about fifty pounds, and he's wilier than she could ever hope to be. Shock is her greatest weapon right now, not the knife in her hand, which she doesn't plan on using anyway. _But Merle doesn't need to know that._

"What in god's name, woman!" Merle rasps out.

"Listen to me right now," Carol says softly, almost pleasantly, brandishing the knife, "because I am only going to say it once. Your brother. If you love him even a little bit, you'll leave him be. You know what I mean, Merle. He lived under the burden of your presence, then your memory for his whole life. Now, it's time for Daryl to live for himself. Not for who you want him to be."

She lets him go, takes a chance that he's still unsure of what is happening. She stands a few feet away, still holding the knife up, panting. He eyes her closely, smirks.

"Who's gonna stop me? You?" Merle smiles indulgently at her.

"Right in one. You're just a snake in the grass, biting whenever you feel like it. I'll step on your head if I have to, even if it means getting bitten," Carol wipes her hand across her forehead. "Daryl's a member of this group, of our family – blood or not. You? You're just a throwback. A monster from a dying era." She turns to walk away.

"And what if I don't take yer friendly advice, sweetheart?"

She turns around, holding the knife up. "Even snakes have to sleep sometimes, right, Merle?" She heads back to the kitchen. To her humanity.

Michonne is sitting at one of the tables, devouring the Surprise Stew. There's another bowl and a glass of water right next to her. Carol sits down next to her, puts the knife down. Michonne notes its pristine state, swaps it for a spoon.

"Thought you might be hungry," she continues to eat.

"Starving," Carol replies, and dives in.


	5. Feminine Wiles

**A/N - Though I am posting this AFTER S3E13, I have NOT watched it yet; I usually get my TWD fix on Monday nights. So, this could all be horribly out of canon and irrelevant, but hopefully, you'll all enjoy anyway! ~CeeCee**

Daryl sits, alone, at one of the tables in the kitchen area, contemplating his lunch. "Surprise Stew" – Carol's cheeky name for the stuff brings a ghost of smile to his face. She's usually hovering around when folks grab their meals, but today has been anything but a usual day. _Andrea. _

_Not sure what she was expectin', saunterin' up to the gate like that, _he thinks. Andrea seemed genuinely surprised by the group's hostility and distrust. _'Cept Carol. She welcomed her back with open arms. _Daryl shakes his head a little, marveling at the woman's ability to spot the positive in everyone. Well, maybe not Merle…

His reverie is interrupted by Michonne, who stalks into the kitchen, prowling like a riled, wild animal. She looks over at the stove, almost as if she expects Carol to be there as well.

"Hungry?" He grunts, gesturing to his bowl.

"I already ate," she mutters. She looks like she's about to leave when Andrea comes in to the room from the other direction. There's a moment when the women regard each other. Michonne stands taller, crosses her arms in front of her.

"I'm leaving," Andrea says. Daryl knows he may as well not be here. This is between the two of them. He keeps chewing, puts his head down.

"Well? Go on then," Michonne's face remains impassive.

Andrea looks desperately sad for a split second, then her features harden. "'Bye Daryl," she chokes out. "I'm going to say goodbye to Carol and see the baby. Then I'm going back. Where I belong." She holds Michonne's gaze a moment longer, then turns and walks away.

Michonne meets Daryl's eye. He's not really sure what to say to this woman his brother almost killed. "She's acting like a fool," she finally says.

"We all do stupid things, things that don't make any sense, from the outside," Daryl replies. He's not sure if he's trying to apologize for Merle, or justify his own actions.

Michonne assesses him, the corner of her mouth turning up, as if she's mildly amused. "Yeah, I know. Difference between you and Andrea is," she continues, "Difference between you two is, she does stupid things 'cuz she's worried about herself. You do stupid things 'cuz you're worried about other people."

Daryl doesn't say anything; just picks up his bowl, rinses it out, sets it on the rack to dry.

"Plus," Michonne continues, stretching out on the floor, starting a round of sit-ups. "I had Andrea's back, then she showed me it. By walkin' away, towards a wish, for something that doesn't exist. But you – you came back. Walked away from what you wished your brother could be. Came back to the person that's got your back, no questions asked."

"Don't know what yer talkin' about," he mutters, grabbing up his crossbow.

"Don't you?" Michonne continues her sit-ups. "Maybe you _are_ a fool, then."

ooooOOOOoooo

Daryl hurries out of the kitchen, moves across the main floor of the cellblock. He's pondering what Michonne's said about Andrea. About Merle. About Carol, even though she didn't mention her by name. It feels like a weakness, somehow, that people know, can see, how much he cares. Maybe more than he can see…

Women's voices, laughter from above him. He sees two heads – Carol's close-cropped one and Andrea's blond one, bent over Li'l Asskicker. He hears his name, more chuckling, as Carol hands the baby over to Andrea, who coos over her.

He moves a little closer to the staircase, as their voices echo down towards him. He knows his eavesdropping, but he doesn't worry himself about it.

"Shane?" Andrea questions Carol.

"Rick killed Shane." Carol explains - the lies about Randall, the scrambling and deception that led to that last night before the group got torn apart months nearly a year ago. A man trying to murder his best friend.

"But Shane loved Rick!" Andrea struggles to piece things together.

"Shane loved Lori," Carol sighs. As if that explains it all. For the women, it seems to be enough.

Andrea passes the baby back to Carol, and their voices drop a little. Daryl creeps a little closer, holding his breath. He senses this is important.

He listens, incredulous, to Carol's measured words, "…go back…give him the night of his life…you can end this…" Carol. Carol suggesting murder. Carol seeing a way out of battle that none of the men even contemplated.

Andrea pounds down the stairs, heads outside, not noticing Daryl half-hidden under the balcony. Daryl waits a moment, and heads up himself.

Carol is bent over a postal crate with "Li'l Asskicker" inked on the side, the baby's fingers wrapped around one of her own. She looks peaceful, a small smile on her lips. Not at all like someone who just suggested murder to one of her friends.

"Finally here for a visit?" She glances at him and something warm dances in the pit of his stomach. "You can say hello, but she's nodding off," she moves aside a little, lets the baby continue to grip her thumb.

Daryl stands beside her, looks down at the pink-faced, dozing baby. Judith wiggles, blows tiny puffs of air from her rosebud mouth. He holds his thumb out, and her free hand clutches it.

Carol chuckles softly. "See? She did miss you." She shifts again and the length of her bare arm is resting against his. His stomach bounces again, and his mind flashes on her kiss from this morning.

He turns to look at her profile, gazing down at Judith. He wants to say something about what he's heard, but doesn't want to admit he's heard it.

"How long were you listening?" She looks up at him, a small smile on her lips.

"Dammit, woman," he grumbles, and she laughs.

"I can see it on your face, you know. Your shock," she shakes her head. "The horror! Sweet, harmless Carol, suggesting murder!"

"Who's ever called you 'sweet'"? He grumbles. But he wants to know more. He'll wait.

"And I guess not 'harmless' either?" She's flirting, but not more than she has in the past. It makes him both nervous and happy. And completely unsure what to do with himself.

He can't help himself, he has to ask: "How you know, though? How do you know that Andrea…can…well…" he trails off. How to ask a question about sex without actually referencing sex? It's not something he talks about much (okay, never), and the idea of talking about it with her terrifies him.

"Sleep with him?" Carol helps him out. "Easy. She's _already_ sleeping with him."

"How can you know that?"

She smirks at him a little. "Daryl…," she stops, seems to consider about how to continue. "The Governor – Philip, as it were – seems to have quite a pull over Andrea. And apparently, she over him. A certain kind of pull. It's written all over her face, in the way she moves her body when she talks about him."

He's getting decidedly uncomfortable with the direction of this conversation. He looks determinedly at the sleeping baby, avoiding Carol's gaze. But in the end, only one thing matters, one thing, and that's –

"Do you think she'll do it? Do you think it'll work?"

Carol's smile fades. "I think it could. I certainly think she can get herself into his bed without question. What she does when she gets there is up to her." She shrugs.

"Here we all are – me, Rick, Glenn – hell, Merle – talkin' about stockpilin' ammo and battle plans," he shakes his head. "And you, you solve the whole thing, with, with…"

"Feminine wiles?" She offers.

"I s'pose, whatever those are," he grunts, snatching little glimpses of her. He figures he knows what they are. And Carol has them.

"It's a women's best weapon in an apocalypse," she agrees, her eyes sparkling. "There's no denying, men got us beat on physical strength, for the most part. Our best weapons are our bodies," she pauses, considers the slumbering baby.

"And only we can make these," she gestures at Judith. "Without us, there's no more people," she stops, and Daryl knows she's thinking about Sophia. "Though I guess my baby-making days are over."

The look on her face squeezes at his heart. "Maybe. But you gotta take care of Li'l Asskicker here…and the rest of us. In between comin' up with genius murder plots, a'course."

The smile comes back to her face, and he's glad. "That's right. What would you do without me?"

"I don't know." And he means it.


	6. Sunrise & Malted Milkshakes

**A/N – Well now. AMC has been quite light on Daryl, basically non-existent on Carol, let alone any Caryl, so I guess,****_ technically_****, I am still in canon! I am just going to keep writing "missing moments" until something in the "real" story (you know the one, on TV, with actors and stuff…;)) intrudes or disagrees with my tale. **

**The good thing is, I've got the entire timeline of "Clear", as well as lots of missing time in the past ep, to fill in. In fact, this conversation with Beth was supposed to be far shorter, but I got on a roll and just...kept...writing. Flipping to Daryl's perspective next chappie. ~CeeCee**

Carol slides the prison gate closed as the car containing Rick, Carl and Michonne rumbles away in long puff of dust. Just before they disappear from view, Carl's head pops out of the backseat window. He waves his hat in farewell.

Carol smiles, waves in return. As does Beth, who's standing beside her, holding a still-sleepy Judith. They linger in the early morning sun for a bit. Daryl left to go hunting when the travelers woke for their journey, and Carol's expecting him back soon.

"Must be a weird feeling, to be goin' back to their hometown," Beth muses, shifting the baby to her shoulder.

"You wouldn't want to go back to the farm, or the town where you grew up, again? Even one more time?" Carol asks her, stretching her arms up, yawning.

Carol gazes at the morning sky, a riot of pinks and purples. She's seen more sunrises in the past year than she has since Sophia was Judith's age. _How quickly we revert to natural rhythms, once creature comforts are taken away. _Without a reliable, steady source of electricity, they all rise early, bed early, with the sun. Like farmers. Except they are harvesting the dead.

Beth is shaking her head. "No, not really. There's nothing left…." She trails off, a frown creasing her pretty face. "Well, I wouldn't mind having my guitar."

"You play, too?" Carol asks. She thinks Beth has a lovely voice, but it's more than that. It's a way for the teenager to hold on to who she is, who she was, before the world went to hell. And her singing reminds the rest of them: there's still some beauty to be had in this wasteland of existence.

"Well…kinda," Beth says, grinning a little. "Singing was always my main thing, but one day, Maggie came home from school, to visit, a few years ago. She brought me this beat-up guitar she'd picked up at a yard sale or something," her smile got bigger. "She didn't realize that the strings needed changin', until my dad pointed out they were almost rotting off. Before she went back, she went out and got new ones, so I had this really crusty-lookin' guitar with shiny new strings."

"Maggie's a good sister," Carol says.

Beth nods, laughs a little. "I really just messed around with it, mostly so I could play a few chords while I was singin'. Then I met Jimmy, and havin' a boyfriend seemed a lot more important than learning the guitar, for awhile. And then, well, you know…" Beth trails off, gazing at the roamers beyond the gate.

"Yeah, I know," Carol says softly.

"Last year…last year, when everything happened," Beth begins again, looking over at Carol. "It was right before my senior year started. The music teacher from school, she called me late summer. Mrs. Conners," she pauses, thinking and continues, "She told me they wanted me to sing something at graduation! I mean, I was shocked. The year hadn't even started, and they were askin' me to sing for the ceremony," she smiles hugely at Carol.

"You must have been proud," Carol replies, wanting Beth to continue. To tell her story. To relive a happy memory.

Beth nods, still smiling. "I was. Really. The whole family got so excited for me. Momma, Daddy…" she trails off, sighs. "I was just thinkin', the other day. Our prom woulda been this month. Me and Jimmy's. I was gonna wear pink…or maybe green…"

"I didn't go to my prom, either, you know," Carol interjects mildly, not wanting the girl to regret reminiscing. Wanting her to hold the happiest memories closest.

"Why not?" Beth bends, gently sets the now-sleeping baby into the small basket they've rigged for her.

"The boy I wanted to go with didn't get his act together in time," Carol laughs a little, remembering. _Tommy Willis. _ _My god, what a long time ago. _"He was just the cutest boy I'd ever seen, but he was also very, very shy," Carol continues, thinking she should have stuck with shy guys. Ed certainly hadn't been shy.

"So he didn't ask you?" Beth questions, thinking it over, "Why didn't you just ask him?"

"That's just not how it was done in my day, Beth," Carol says ruefully. "At least, not in my school, my town. Well, I guess there may have been one or two girls with the guts to ask a boy to the prom, but I was certainly not one of them."

"Did he ever know you liked him?" The teenager is fascinated with the story in a way that only a sweet 17-year-old girl could be.

"Yes! Yes, that's the best part of the story, you see," Carol's now fully invested in telling the tale, smiling, not just for Beth, but for herself. "There I was, the night of the prom, moping around my room, blasting some really awful country music, thinking of what I was missing out on. My parents had gone out for the night, so it was just me. I was _wallowing, _like it was the worst night of my life…" _Oh, to be eighteen again, when the worst thing that's happened is a missed prom._

"And the doorbell rings, startles the hell outta me. I run downstairs, hair sticking in all directions, face puffy from crying. And there he is, Tommy."

"The shy boy?"

"Yes, the shy boy, Tommy Willis," Carol laughs. "He's standing there on my porch with some wilting daisies, lookin' down at his shoes."

"What did he look like?" Beth giggles.

"Cute, of course! Curly black hair, tall, super skinny," she remembers. _He really had been sweet. So sweet. _With a small smile that turned up the corner of his mouth."Anyway, he's standing there, muttering to his feet. I'm mortified. I look a mess."

"Don't tell me he asked you to the prom _then,_" Beth is fully caught up in the story, exasperated at a boy who'd be a middle-aged man now if he was alive.

"No, no, he wasn't that clueless. He shoved the flowers in my general direction and asked me if I'd go see a movie at the drive-in with him," Carol pauses, thinks. "Please tell me you know what a drive-in is, Beth, or I am going to feel _very_ old."

"'Course I do! Well, the general idea anyway," Beth shrugs.

"_Anyway, _we drove to the hill overlooking the drive-in, got giant malted milkshakes, and talked most of the night away. I remember getting a verbal lashing when I got home – the sun was rising."

"Did he kiss you?"

"He was shy, but not _that _shy," both of them laugh.

Carol hears the birdcall signaling Daryl's return from hunting, and seconds later he appears at the edge of the woods' undergrowth, raises his hand in cautious greeting as he makes his way back to the prison yard.

_My other shy guy_, Carol thinks as she rolls the gate open for him. Maybe she's learned something after all.

_Too bad there aren't any more drive-ins. Or malteds. Good thing there's still kissing. _ Carol smiles to herself and goes to say good morning to the returning hunter.


	7. Honey Sweet Sassafras

**A/N: Paraphrased/edited line from ****_Pulp Fiction_**** © 1994 Quentin Tarantino and Roger Avery.**

He approached the tree line quietly. He always feels calm after a few hours in the woods. Even now, despite the need to constantly scan for walkers or worse, other people. After that one terrifying experience, so long ago, getting lost…he had learned what the woods can do for him. Keep him alive, rather than wear him down.

In the woods, his biggest responsibility is looking, but also listening: for the chuckle of a clean stream, the rustle of a rabbit, or the chittering of a squirrel. Or the silence of the birds, which precedes a storm, a predator. Or the dragging, blind hunger of a heard of walkers.

Here, there's no one else to answer to, no one to demand anything of him. He relishes the opportunity to just…not…speak. Daryl sometimes feels people place way too much value on gabbing endlessly. He has no problem with talking; he just wants it to be efficient. Very little moves him to speak more than necessary, except anger. Well…also…

He looks out from the underbrush, beyond the roamers, towards the gate of the prison yard. Carol and Beth stand there, in the purple light of dawn. Beth seems to be telling a story, a big smile on her young face. She trails off, and just before her look changes to something sadder, Carol interjects and Beth is grinning again, listening to her while placing Li'l Asskicker in her basket.

_She does that sometimes¸ keeps ya from thinkin' about the bad stuff…_he sometimes says more to Carol than he means to say out loud. He remembers a few days ago, when he called the prison a tomb. She agreed with him… "Until you found me." It's impossible for him to be completely unhappy when he's around her. She tricks the smiles out of him, dammit.

The women laugh, and he starts. He releases the bird-call they agreed upon a few hours ago, and Carol moves to open the gate. He jogs quickly towards it, taking out two walkers on the way. He's careful not to drop the morning's findings. He has a few surprises.

He follows the two of them into the yard, where Judith is dozing in a handled basket.

"I better take her inside, before the sun's too much," Beth murmurs. She's more subdued than she was a few moments ago, while he watched her chatting with Carol. "I can take those in too, if you'd like," she gestures to the corpses of the two large rabbits slung over his shoulder. "My dad'll skin them."

She tucks the basket containing Judith under one arm and holder her other hand out, business-like, for them. Daryl glances at Carol, who doesn't even seem as if she's paying attention to the exchange. _But she is. Damn woman. _

"Good," he nods. Hershel knows what he's doing. No meat will be lost. He gives the teenager the rabbits, reaches into his sack. "Beth, hang on a sec," he pulls out a few bundle of greens he's secured with twine.

"Dandelion leaves," Beth reaches for them, a hint of a smile creasing her face. "We can have a salad!" She looks over at Carol and her smile widens. "Finally, something from out of the ground. Never thought I'd miss salad, but I'd eat all of these over a can of peas any day!" She takes the other, smaller bundle from Daryl's grasp as well.

"Sassafras!" As the spicy, lemony scent fills the air. Now she's really grinning at Daryl and he feels the sides of his mouth twitching into a smile. He doesn't want to admit it, but the kid giving him the cold shoulder was starting to bother him. "I'll make some iced sassafras tea for dinner tonight," she proffers the bundle at Carol, who inhales the smell of them, smiling.

"Almost as nice as daisies, right Carol?" She walks over, gives the older woman a kiss on the cheek. She waves the greens at him. "Thanks, Daryl," and heads back to the prison. Carol pulls up next to him, and they watch the slender blond form, loaded down with baby and bounty, head back inside.

"Out of the doghouse, then?" Carol looks up at him, grinning. "That's one down…now you've just got Maggie, and Glenn, and –wait! Do you have enough stuff in that bag of yours?" She moves as if to rifle through it, and he snatches it out of her reach. She holds her hands up in mock surrender.

"Oh, knock it off," he grumbles. Because he _does_ have something else in the bag, and he brought it back just for her. But he will give it to her in his own time.

They stand there for a few minutes in companionable silence, watching the sun climb over the horizon. Carol's a much better conversationalist than he, but she also appreciates that it's okay to just shut the hell up sometimes. He thinks about that line from _Pulp Fiction, _Uma Thurman's character says it to John Travolta; something like:

_"That's how you know found someone special. When you can just shut the f**k up for a minute and comfortably enjoy the silence."_

And there it is. Up until a few months ago, Daryl assumed there were two kinds of silences: the best kind, when he was alone. Or the terrifying, awful, uncomfortable ones around other people, which signified his that ineptitude, stupidity or inferiority had reared its dumb head.

"What ya thinking about?" She finally speaks.

"_Pulp Fiction,_" he answers truthfully, and she burst out laughing.

"A little violent for my tastes at the time, but it probably wouldn't faze me now," she says dryly. "Beth and I were talking about movies too, right before you showed up. She didn't know what a drive-in was."

"No shit?" He replies, and they both chuckle. Then he shakes his head, thinking. "Now there's a whole bunch'a kids that won't even know what _movies_ are."

Carol shakes her head, "No high school graduation, no prom, no malted milkshakes.." she trails off, but she's thinking about something that brings a smile to her face.

"What is it?" He asks, thinking about what's in his bag.

"Oh nothing...it's just, yeah, there's lots we don't have anymore, but we've still got plenty. Like sassafras," she smiles. There's a decided twinkle in her eye, one that makes his stomach do that nervously happy dance it sometimes does when he's around her. The one that he always waits to pass, since he doesn't know the steps, or the name of the music.

"And this," he pulls a small tin container out of his bag, one he swiped from the kitchen this morning. _You never know what the woods are gonna give you_. He hands it to her.

She pries the lid off, and laughs, her dimple creasing her cheek as she looks down at what's inside. The look on her face is worth the bee stings that are itching the hell out of him right now.

"Honey," she looks at him, the word a sigh. Somewhere between fact and endearment. "Here, hold the box for me."

He takes it, and she bends over, breaking the honey-saturated comb inside into three waxy pieces. "Now. There we go. A piece for you, a piece for me, and some for Beth's tea later on." She hands him his sticky portion, holds onto her own. He stuffs the container with the last piece back into his bag.

She bites into her portion of the comb somewhat ungracefully and honey rolls down the side of her hand.

"Careful," he warns, gesturing. She licks it off carelessly, and watching her, his stomach does another limpid, whirling turn.

"Delischous," she exclaims around a mouthful of comb and honey. "Eat!"

She commands him, using her free hand to push the dripping comb towards his mouth. He takes a bite, and she's right. It _is _delicious. Just really, really good. And even better, to be sharing it with her.


	8. What's Under the Trees

**A/N: Hi, readers! I disappeared for a few days, as the good ol' laptop was down for the count with a computer virus. I wasn't sure what this chapter was going to focus on after finishing the bit with the honey, but it came to me while I was doing a few miles on the treadmill today. Namely: how did Carol feel when she found out Andrea didn't go through with her suggestion, but rather set up the "meeting of the minds" with Rick and the Governor? **

Everything inside her seems to be thrashing around minutely; she can't get a grasp on this emotion rolling through her. Andrea's reappearance, a few days after she first visited the prison, throws her. As does her suggestion: a peace summit, with the leaders of the respective groups. Carol better understands the hope in her friend's eyes than her own reaction to the news that the Governor is still alive.

What she feels right now, standing in the dusty yard as they watch Andrea retreat, with a promise from Rick and a few sidelong glances from the rest of the group, what she feels now…is anger. Anger spinning out and away from her, circling her, like the skin of an apple slowly unpeeling, spiraling outward. Anger, surrounding her, blotting out the rest of the world. Working its way to her core.

She has to get away from the others. She doesn't say anything, just walks purposefully from the loosely gathered group, back towards the prison. She needs to get a grip on this. Carol is used to despair; she understands fear better than she wants to. She has been bedmates with resignation and acceptance. Even moments of necessary malice, like the other day with Merle and the knife, have always been in quick flashes that easily burn off. This feels different.

Towards the back of one of the common areas in their cellblock are the large wooden crates they'd been assembling to fortify the catwalks and fences. Scattered among the lumber are several tools: a handsaw, a large hammer, nails. She doesn't think; she grabs the hammer and starts slamming into one of the crates, thoroughly satisfied with the splintering crunch of wood upon impact. _Almost like Ed's skull, but drier…_the thought pops into her head and is gone almost before she can register it. The muscles in her shoulders and back scream for her to stop, but she can't. The Governor's not here; she must destroy _something_.

"Carol. Carol! CAROL!" Her name, more insistent with each repetition.

She cannot stop, not now. "Leave me be, Rick." She turns towards her friend, a good man, someone to whom she's given comfort to and received from him in return. But he doesn't understand. She raises the hammer again, appreciating the deadweight of it in her hand.

Before she can bring it down, he's at her side. "You're angry. I get it. But you're going to scare Judith. And Carl. Even Beth. You can't fall apart on them. The rest of us have a hard enough time holding it together," he speaks calmly, the lilting cadences of his voice barely above a whisper. She makes the mistake of glancing over at him, all hollow eyes and earnestness. She drops the hammer.

"Okay, Rick, okay," she raises her hands in mock surrender. But the anger is still rolling around her, inside her. She's surprised she can't actually _see_ it.

"Good," Rick says. Places a warm hand on her shoulder. _Can't he feel it? How pissed off I am? _If he does, he doesn't let on. "Good. I'm the certifiable crazy person here. There's only room for one of us," he waits, smiles at her, and Carol grins tightly back.

"I – I'm going to clean this up," she gestures to the kindling around her. "Cool down."

"Okay, good. Carol," he turns to leave. "We're gonna get through this. I promise, okay?"

She wants to believe him. She wants him to believe himself, which is even more important. "Yes, of course."

He smiles at her once more, leaving, and brushes past Daryl, who stands silently for a few minutes, arms folded, watching her clean up her mess. He makes no move to help her, just stands there.

"What?" She throws the wood down, folds her arms.

"Pissed off at Andrea?" He mutters.

"What do you think?" She opens her arms, gestures at the mess around her.

"Come with me."

"Why should I?" She doesn't care about the petulant tone of her voice.

"'Cause otherwise, no more honey for you," he says, the corner of his mouth twitching, and suddenly, they are both laughing.

"Anything but that," she laughs, despite the anger roiling in her gut, and follows him.

ooooOOOOoooo

He gets a reluctant Glenn to let them out of the gate, assuring him of the brevity and caution of their foray. Carol says nothing. She notices a burning in her palms and glances down as she follows Daryl into the underbrush. Her nails have cut deep red half-moons into her palms, which stare up at her like crazed grins. She opens her hands and shakes them out. They sting.

"Where are we going?" She finally asks.

"You have your knife?" He asks in response.

"Yes, of course," she replies. "I always have it with me, just in case."

"Good," he grunts. He pauses for a moment, listening, the woods telling him something she cannot understand. He then gestures for her to move forward. It's humid and dimmer here, the Georgia summer just beginning to unfurl. She wishes she could enjoy it a little; she so rarely leaves the prison anymore. Even with the threat of walkers, or the Governor, the woods are beautiful.

"Ok, this is it," Daryl's brought her to a small oval-shaped clearing. Light pours in from a calm blue circle of sky. There is just the two of them, the buzz of bees and the occasional fly of a bird's wings.

"Lemme see your knife," she passes it to him, their hands grazing. Mild desire mixes with Carol's anger. This is something she cannot help, so she doesn't try. It is there, waiting, like the last present under the Christmas tree. A few times, she's picked it up, looked at the wrapping paper; shook it, to see what might be inside. Then she'll catch the wounded but hopeful way he looks at Merle or how he still flinches at anything but the most casual touch. So it's still sitting there, waiting for her, for them, to unwrap. She knows she'll have to be the one to pull the bow off. Eventually.

He's handing her the knife, pulling her by the wrist, pointing in the direction of a thick-trunked tree. "Okay, you know what to do. Aim as close as you can for the center of the trunk. Focus. Don't think about 'nuthin' else." He jogs over to stand beside the tree. "Try not to stick me with that thing," he grumbles.

"Famous last words," she quips, but it's perfunctory. She focuses on the tree trunk, both far away and not, and throws. It lands slightly left of center. He nods, pulls it out, lopes back, hands her the knife. She throws again, her shoulder and arm warming up. The knife lands in nearly the same spot, only a little off-center. He brings it back to her, and, slowly but surely, with each throw, the steel blade creeps closer and closer to the center.

Her anger is receding. The mild desire at his touch moments ago is receding. The grass below and the sky above are receding. Everything she could lose, everything she loves, everything she hates, receding. All that is left is the knife in her hand, the release, the lodging of the blade into the wood, which she feels, somehow, in her breast bone; him jogging back, placing it back in her hand, and throw. And release. Lodge. Jog. Hand. And again.

After an endless, unknown number of repetitions, he jogs towards her but doesn't give her the knife. She looks up expectantly, eyebrows raised.

"Still pissed?" He's folding the knife over.

"No," she shakes her head, clearing it. "No, I'm not." And it's true. She still feels sad, frustrated, betrayed. But that wild anger? It's gone. She's thrown it into the tree across the way. "That's a neat trick, you know," she smiles up at him.

"Kept me outta jail a few times," he goes to place the knife in her waiting hand. She can't be sure whether he's serious or not. He's noticed the marks her nails left in her palm.

"I didn't know what to do with it," she shakes her head. "The anger."

"Don't ever let it harm you," he says. Dead serious. He carefully places the knife in her hand, avoiding the cut skin. "Bein' pissed off, I mean. Too many other people – and things – ready and willin' to do that for you. Don't help 'em out."

"Daryl," she grabs his wrist, breathes. Feels his warm, rough skin, his living pulse, under her fingertips. "Thank you. For this. For the honey the other day." She's out of words. Spent. All she knows is that she doesn't want to let go quite yet. _Open it, Carol. Open it. What if Christmas never comes? What if the Governor takes it all away? _

She can feel his hand vibrating minutely at her touch. He doesn't flinch or pull away, but he's like a deer, poised to leap and run at the slightest movement. She tugs gently at his wrist, at the bow on the gift of them, of what they could be. She sighs, places his hand at her waist. She slowly puts her arms around his neck, and leans in, not for a kiss, but to rest her weary head on his dirty shoulder. She sighs again. So does he, as she feels his fingers grasp her waist more tightly, and his other hand come to rest on her head. Because some gifts need to be opened slowly.


	9. Who You Belong To

Night watch, on the tower. Daryl doesn't mind it, not really. Rick's announcement that they are going to war still ringing in the air, hovering over them. He doubts anyone but Li'l Asskicker's getting any sleep tonight. And sleep would be elusive for him, regardless. His mind is on the woods, yesterday. The clearing. Carol.

_She had been seething, almost wild, after Andrea's departure. He had never her seen her quite like that before. She had calmed a little on the way to the clearing, but it wasn't until she'd started target practice that her face relaxed. She kept hurling the knife, each time with greater grace and accuracy, until she was completely centered on the task. _

_Her face had become a mask of calm, her grey-blue eyes clear, her jaw set but not clenched. She had been truly beautiful in that moment, in a way that had almost knocked him down. Her small frame, with one arm extended, her muscles taut but unstressed. She had hardly looked at him, just placed her palm out for the knife, again and again. In this way, he was able to observe her, unobserved himself. His heart opened outward towards her, while she's unawares. _

He notices, more and more often, the door to his heart swinging slowly open, millimeter by millimeter, towards her. Before he realizes it, she's standing at the threshold, peeking in. Sometimes he catches it, closes it again, throws the bolt and hooks the chain. With everyone else in the group, he gets by with slipping notes of affection back and forth under the doorjamb. A nod of approval from Rick, a slap on the back from Hershel, a sarcastic but warm relay of insults with Glenn. Li'l Asskicker grabbing his thumb in a fat little hand. Even Beth, grinning at him the other day. These scraps, they always seem to be enough. If he's honest with himself, it's just about what he feels he's worth.

He digs one of the walker-pilfered cigarettes from this afternoon from his pocket, lights it, inhales. He thinks of the Governor's man, Martinez, whom he shared a smoke with. Filled with understandable hate for the walkers, for taking his family. His wife, his children. Something Daryl cannot comprehend. _A family. _He shakes his head, as if to clear it. Something so foreign to the pre-apocalypse version of himself never registered it as an option. _A wife…_

He's never really belonged to anyone before. His mother gone and dead before he'd reached double digits, his father doling out scars rather than understanding or love. And Merle…he and Merle are master and whipped dog, and he knows it. He doesn't doubt his brother loves him; doubts rather the nature of that love. Cavalier and temperamental. Once Daddy was gone, and Merle reappeared, it was a matter of trading a master who made him bleed for a master who yelled, cowed and kicked on occasion. He'd always considered himself lucky. But now…Carol. The hinges on his heart, swinging open, towards her.

_He chides her for harming herself, reminds her there are plenty of people willing to do that for her. He's aware of the warmth of her hand on his wrist, the proximity of those clear grey eyes. She does not let go, as she is supposed to (notes slipped under the door) but rather grips more tightly, thanking him. She moves his hand to her waist. Desire and surprise swirl in his stomach and loins as his hand grips an enticing combination of cloth and warm skin. _

_She sighs, her head tilting in. He is afraid. But because she has been so angry and then so beautiful and his heart is so open at this moment, he doesn't stop her. His heart is pounding, wide open. He anticipates her mouth on his, unsure but terribly hungry, a sort of hunger he's never experienced before: one that emanates from both his body and heart. In his experience, physical desire is something to handle quickly, roughly, disposed of in the backseat of a car or the backrooms of bars. Emotional desire – love – is just a fairytale. _

_But the kiss does not arrive. Rather, she places herself tucked in close to him, arms wrapped around his neck, head on his shoulder. Disappointment and relief reside in him in equal measure. He places his other hand, the one unoccupied with the warm skin of her waist, on her slowly-growing locks. He realizes he's touching her simply because he wants to, not out of necessity, but because of this new desire, a sort he didn't know existed. _

Those moments come back to him over the next twenty-four hours, during his conversation with Martinez, during the ride back home, when she was standing next to him, not long ago, as Rick addressed the group, and they make him think: who does he belong to, now? Who belongs to him?

Someone is kicking around the yard below, and he lifts his crossbow. A flashlight goes on, illuminating Merle's familiar, yet leaner, face. His brother lights a cigarette as well, given by Daryl as some sort of peace offering for riling him up. The others told him that Merle had wanted to go after him earlier today. _Loyal old dog you are, Daryl. Merle needs you to come running back, to heel at his side. _He feels this to be both disloyal and true.

Merle turns around, catches Daryl looking down, raises his hand in a perfunctory wave. Daryl nods, waves back. His brother looks like he's about to say something, when they both hear footsteps on the tower stairs. And then she's there, walking towards him. Carol, gun in hand. She gives him a small smile, pulls up next to him. Looks over the railing at Merle, in the yard below.

Something changes, closes in his brother's now-thin face. Merle squints up at her, takes a drag on his cigarette, calls up in a loud whisper.

"Carol, sweetheart, ready to take up arms?" There is an edge under his jovial tone, one that Daryl doesn't quite understand.

"I would think you'd know the answer to that better than most, Merle," she responds with the same tone: jolly but cold. His brother and this woman who's opened his heart stare at each other, saying everything and nothing, in the twenty-five feet between the ground and the air.

Merle breaks the gaze first, chuckling hoarsely, "Guess I'll go back inside. Read me a little 'Revelations,'" his eyes flicker towards Daryl now. Filled with disappointment, but something else: fear. "'_With justice he judges, and makes war_,'" he scoffs, crushes out his cigarette, walks back inside.

Daryl stands still, resisting the bone-deep urge to go after him. He lights a cigarette instead.

"Nasty habit," Carol chides, but she's grinning.

"I have worse," he responds, then they lapse into that comfortable silence they have between them, leaning against the tower's booth. He finishes the butt, glances over at her. She seems calm again, herself. Despite Rick's announcement, despite the flinty look in her eyes moments ago while talking to his brother. As beautiful as she was yesterday.

"You don't like Merle," he says, flatly.

"What's there to like?" She responds, and they both chuckle.

"But…you weren't pissed when I went with him," he almost makes it a question. Almost. She's never expressed anger over his abandonment of the group…to him. It doesn't mean that she wasn't, though.

"No, I wasn't," she agrees. "I wasn't angry. I was sad. Disappointed," the word twists a little in his heart. "Worried about how Rick would handle it, Glenn, the others. They counted on you."

He feels the hackles rising, sets his mouth in a thin line. Says nothing. She leans forward, on the tower's railings.

"That's not an accusation," she says gently. "It's just the truth. You belonged here, with everyone. There were missing spaces that belonged to you, in everyone. In me." She's looking down at her hands, where the cuts from her nails are beginning to scab over. "I wasn't angry, no. I just didn't…I didn't know what to do with those spaces. There were a lot of them."

She looks up again, and now she's smiling. And the door of his heart inches open, oh so slowly, again.

"I understood why you went with Merle. But I also realized something else: you have to belong to yourself, before you can really belong to anyone else." She shakes her head. "Ed – Ed treated me like his property, but I never _belonged _to him, not in his heart – or what passed for it – or mine. So when you came back, even though Merle came with you…you came back for _you_, not for Merle."

"Didn't just come back for myself," he spits out, and that desire is back, filling him with bright shocks of warmth down the length of him. In his heart.

"Of course not," she replies. "You came back because you belong…" she trails off, smiles, shakes her head.

_To you,_ he finishes, in his head, with her. He holds her gaze a moment longer, then walks over. Places his one of his hands on top of hers, resting on the railing. _To you. _


	10. What Makes You Stay

**A/N: Another Daryl chapter. This one took a slight turn because I happened to see previews for TWD 3x15, and it's got a Daryl/Glenn scene. This chapter was SUPPOSED to be a Daryl/Glenn scene…but, well, in-canon and all that. My thoughts behind it were to explore Daryl's relationship with another member of the group, other than Carol and his brother. Does his heart have room only for the two of them, or this menagerie of folks with whom he now spends his days and nights? **

**I also strongly considered ending this story with the last chapter (at the suggestion of a very talented writer *AHEM, ImOrca*), but apparently, I have a little more to say. ;-)**

All of them are armed all the time now. There is no other way; like Rick has so bluntly declared last night, they are going to war. And making Daryl as uneasy as the pending showdown with the Governor is the knowledge that their group is fractious, strained nearly to the breaking point.

Prior to Merle's return, he had only seriously considered leaving the group once: when they couldn't decide what to do with Randall. He had told Dale that the group was broken, and at the time, it had been true: Rick and Shane fighting over leadership and the love of a woman; Lori, terrified, pregnant and conflicted, adding to the destruction of the friendship between her husband and lover; Andrea straining against everything, determined to prove her worth alongside the men…

…and Sophia. Staggering out of that barn, a little slip of a girl he hardly knew. Holding Carol's crumpled form back from her daughter's destroyed being, in the dusty yard. Lashing out at her, seeing the pain in her eyes: "Sophia wasn't mine." Pain deeper than anything the waste of space that had been her husband had ever inflicted on her.

He had been so thoroughly disgusted with all of them (himself included) he had almost just left, gone. A year ago his instinct was to flee from them, to avoid the fallout when it all crumbled to the ground. He is a different man now. These people have changed him. Caring about them has changed him. The lines of tension crisscrossing the group mostly lead back to Merle. And, accordingly, to him. In his gut, he knew it was up to him to relieve some of them. Or at least, make an attempt.

He walks through the yard, spots Glenn assembling Molotov cocktails with Maggie. He nods at him, this man whom he considers a friend. Someone whom Daryl respects, likes, had grown to trust, before Merle's violence and latent racism had driven a wedge between them. Glenn acknowledges him with a return nod, but his mouth is set in grim, thin line. He wants to smooth thing over, apologize for Merle. The set of his jaw prevents Daryl from approaching. Somehow, he knows it might be easier without Maggie around. He'll wait for his chance.

He keeps walking across the yard, towards the old VW bus one of the Governor's people had driven through the gates days before, filled with walkers like a malignant, juicy piñata. The driver had left the keys in the ignition in his or her haste to escape. After a quick examination, Hershel had told the group he could make the vehicle roadworthy. Daryl can see the old man's legs (well, leg) sticking out from underneath the bus, his movements kicking up puffs of dust.

Hershel's hand searches for a wrench lying in the dirt beside him, and Daryl lopes over, scoops it up, and passes it to him.

"Here ya go," placing it in his hand.

"Thanks, Daryl," Hershel's voice, muffled. "One more thing down here, then we'll see if she's runnin' okay again." He hums to himself, caught up in the work. Daryl's mind wanders again to Dale, who also found great satisfaction in trying to fix broken things. _Cars and groups of people…_He doesn't usually let himself think about Dale. Dale, whom – despite any rationale he or anyone else can provide – Daryl murdered. Yes, yes, it was to prevent the inevitable; a mercy, really. But still…the only _person_ whose blood he definitively has on his hands.

Hershel scoots from under the van, squints up at Daryl and the bright midday sun. Daryl extends his arm, hoisting him to his feet. He steadies himself, grabs the crutch leaning against the vehicle's door. Wipes grease and sweat from his forehead, nods gratefully at the water Daryl offers him. _Tough old bastard, _Daryl thinks with admiration. He's not sure if _he_ could've handled having his leg sawed off with nothing to blunt the pain and trauma. He's not sure he'd be okay living with only one leg.

"Hop in there, see if I got it runnin'," Hershel prods him, slamming down the open car hood. Daryl climbs into the driver's seat, wait until Hershel backs away from the front of the van. Turns the key in the ignition. The van grinds angrily to life, but the engine settles into a quieter buzz in a few seconds. Daryl turns it off, gets out of the car.

Carol, who's on the watchtower with Rick, has turned at the sound of the engine burring to life. She shades her eyes with a hand. "Nice job, Hershel!" She spots Daryl, waves to both of them, then turns back to watch duty.

Merle strolls into the yard with several automatics, placing them on a bench to clean them. Daryl immediately feels those lines of tension pull tighter, watching Glenn stop stuffing gasoline-soaked rags into bottles and follow his brother's movement with a face made of stone. Maggie grabs his arm, whispers something to him, and Glenn reluctantly turns back to his work, his mouth grimmer than ever.

Hershel's voice startles Daryl. "Merle's gonna have to make amends eventually," he clears his throat, continues. "Apologize. It won't do to have us fightin' with each other."

"Guess so," Daryl grunts, noncommittal, though he agrees. He just doesn't see it actually happening.

"You're prob'ly sick'a hearin' this, Daryl," Hershel starts, scrubbing a hand across his beard, "But we're all a family now. Blood or not. Yeah, I love my girls somethin' fierce, but all a' you folks mean everything to me, each and every one of you." Thankfully, Hershel's not looking at him. Somehow, he knows the older man knows better than to say this kind of thing to him while maintaining eye contact.

"Glenn and Merle'll sort it out," Daryl mutters.

"Yeah, maybe so. But if you care about both of them – and I know you do – you might have to help it along, like," the older man pauses, thinks on something. "Maggie hasn't really talked to me too much about what happened in Woodbury." He stops, his face hardens a little. "But I think, more than what your brother did to Glenn, more'n that, it's what he let that bastard do to my little girl."

Daryl doesn't know what to say. He's ashamed, ashamed of what his brother has done, and wishes he could erase it all with a sweep of his hands, with the right words, with anything. But he can't.

"I've forgiven your brother, because the good Lord says it's the right thing to do," Hershel shakes his head, "And because despite everything, I have faith in something better'n us, showin' us how to do things the right way." He coughs a little, and Daryl passes him the canteen again. "But I've got forty years'a patience on Glenn. And I'm Maggie's father, not her lover. Lovin' someone, lovin' 'em the right way, you put them before ye'self."

Carol's laughter peals out from above them. Both men look up at the sound, instinctively grinning. She's swatting Rick playfully, who's chuckling as well. Daryl's gaze lingers a little on her, happy to see her happy. She catches him looking, waves again.

"Guess you understand that a little, too," Hershel's voice next to him.

Daryl considers, then answers. "Guess I do."

"It's good, you know. It's good. People need other people. It's survival, but it's more than that. It's what makes us strong. It's what makes us stay." Hershel claps his hand on Daryl's shoulder. He doesn't shrug it off. He likes it. He likes belonging.

_It's love. It's what makes you strong. It's what makes you stay. _


	11. Late Bloomers

**A/N – *** S3E15 SPOILERS ABOUND. READERS BEWARE*****

**Yeah, so anyone ELSE totally traumatized by "This Sorrowful Life"? Me too. I don't want mess much with what the script and the actors gave us (however, whether it was intentional or not, loved the throwback reference that Daryl couldn't stop with one blow to ZombieMerle's head – remind you of anyone else?). This chapter is more the security blanket I'm clutching, while rocking in the corner, right over here, ssshhhh, ssshhhh, it's gonna be okay. Join me? I think we all need a hug. **

"And everyone, they have a heart,  
And when they break and fall apart,  
And need somebody's helping hand.

I used to say: "Just let 'em fall."  
It wouldn't bother me at all.  
I couldn't help then, now I can."

©The Avett Brothers

If – no, she must think "when" – _when_ he returns, she knows he will return alone. There is no other way. Michonne's tale of Merle's change of heart speaks of no other possibility. Daryl will return without his brother, because his brother was a dead man the minute he let his captive out of the car.

She and Merle, the late bloomers of the group. Merle, standing on the stairs above her, _seeing _her, who she has become. Merle, who is now, barring a miracle, either walker or walker food. And Carol doesn't believe in miracles, not anymore.

Now _she _sees herself, too. She sees long and wide, what she is willing to do to clutch this new version of herself, and her new family, tight, tight, tighter. She is willing to do anything.

She thinks back to earlier today. "This is not the time to do shots," she'd admonished him. Merle, Merle – he was basically just one big, loud, walking, talking _id_. Doing something on impulse: because at the moment, it seemed the thing to do, be it a fifth of whiskey or a human sacrifice – including his own.

She's standing alone, on the watchtower, above the furtive activity of the others in the yard below. She asked Rick for the duty, pleading with her eyes. He nodded, understanding. She mounted the stairs two at a time, and Rick grabs her wrist before she escapes to necessary solitude.

"Daryl'll come back. He said we're his family now…" trying to convince himself, along with her.

"Yes, he will. He will…if he can. After he faces the inevitable," she had shrugged, trying to shake away the lump that had rose up in her throat, the lump with Merle's name on it. Until the very moment Michonne had returned and told her story, she had hated the man, fiercely. She loves his brother, fiercely. These things had made her unable to say anything more to her friend, so she'd turned away from Rick and hustled up to her post.

And now, she waits, she stands. The sun sinking riotously before her, on their last day and night in this prison, this tomb.

_This place is a tomb._

He had said it to her, those long and short days ago, and she had chided him, reminded him: he had saved her. By rights, the prison should have been her tomb, but for him. She shudders a little, grips the automatic in her hands more tightly, because now, it's not just the prison that feels like a tomb, it's the world.

She hears deliberate footsteps on the stairs, as if the person coming wants her know. She turns slightly, loath to stop scanning the ever-dimming horizon for Daryl's form, to see not Rick, whom she half-expected, but Michonne.

She comes up next to Carol, scans the tree line silently, her dark eyes moving constantly. Finally, she speaks. "Mind company?"

Carol shakes her head, swallows. The lump is still there, insistent.

They stand there without speaking for a stretch of time. Michonne is one of the quietest people Carol's ever met, even more taciturn than Daryl. People have probably mistaken each of their silences in the past for stupidity or disinterest, but Carol knows better.

A ringing sound slices through the air as she unsheathes her katana. Carol knows she cleans it meticulously each day, but there are still tell-tale auburn smears here and there along the blade.

"He's not comin' back, you know," Michonne says, still staring at the sword. "Merle, I mean, not Daryl. That one'll come back, with his last breath, if he can."

"I know," Carol whispers, and the lump is slowly melting, into tears. She tries to urge them back.

"He gave me my sword back," Michonne looks at her. "That crazy racist fucker gave me my sword back." Carol's heart starts with surprise to see that her eyes, too, are swimming with tears.

"Late bloomer, I guess," Carol shrugs, laughs hysterically, and the tears spill over, hot and heavy, full of shame. She swipes them away. Michonne raises her eyes questioningly at her comment, brushes more gently at her own tears.

"Something we said to each other earlier today," Carol shrugs. "I was…a very different person last Merle saw me. He called me a late bloomer. I told him, maybe he was one too."

"His brother's one, too," Michonne notes. "Never seen a later bloomer than _that _guy."

They both start giggling a little, if Carol can reconcile the concept that Michonne is capable of something as girlish as giggling.

"Tell me about it," Carol says through her laughter, but suddenly, she's sobbing, shaking, doubled over. She feels Michonne's warm hand on her back, rubbing a little. That's all. After several endless minutes, the fit passes, and she wipes spit and snot and tears and anger and hope and misery and fear and love on the sleeve of her sweater.

"Sorry," she croaks.

"Don't be," Michonne shakes her head. "You'll see, Daryl'll be back and you late bloomers will be brushin' up against each other again. It'll be like a field full of daisies."

"Wouldn't that be nice?" Carol sighs.


	12. To Live and Die Well

**A/N: Hi guys. So…my reaction to the season finale was a big ol' "meeeehhhh". So many missed opportunities, for ALL of the characters. Anyway, I wanted to wrap this story up, since you were all so nice to take the journey with me. I fleshed things out a little, resolving the finale for myself, at least! Thanks, as always, for reading, reviewing and communicating with me about these stories. **

**Shout out to Cheap Trixie for encouraging me to tackle this one! :)**

**~ CeeCee **

There is no time to grieve, in this new world, he's decided. He's never been one for mulling things over (though he's always held his wounds close to his chest), but even more so, now. Now, the people that matter the most are the ones most dangerous to reflect upon.

He does not disagree with Rick's decision to cull the weak and helpless out of Woodbury, bring them to the prison. But the sheer volume of them goes against his solitary nature. The number of them, and the _responsibility_ of them. Part of him is relieved to be heading out for evening watch with Glenn.

He runs into his friend in the yard, conversing with Hershel. Both men nod, and Glenn jogs over.

"Hey, I know we got watch, but can you ask Michonne or Carol to hang out for a few minutes? I want to finish up here," he gestures at the older man.

"Yeah, no problem," Daryl shrugs. He turns to go.

"Daryl, look, man," Glenn grabs his arm. "This is really fucking hard to say, but I want to say it."

He says nothing, just looks at Glenn's hand on his arm, puzzled.

Glenn takes a deep breath. "I know all I've done is give you shit about Merle, and give Merle shit about Merle. I can't say that he didn't deserve it. But you know? That crazy racist lunatic found some honor, in what he did, for Michonne, for the rest of us. You get me?"

Daryl almost can't handle his earnestness, the nakedness of it. He squints, replies, "You're right. You're right about my brother…he was a crazy racist lunatic." A smile passes over his mouth.

Glenn bursts out laughing, "Yeah, yeah, okay. Thanks, Daryl. Really," he heads back to Hershel, and Daryl turns and walks up the stairs to the remaining catwalk, towards the roof, hoping Glenn didn't see the tears in his eyes.

ooooOOOOoooo

The roof is so exposed, but the Governor and his cavalry left them with few other vantage points. Daryl pushes the door to the flat expanse of space of the roof top. Michonne and Carol stand sentry, their forms silhouetted against the setting sun. The two women are talking quietly. Carol turns at the sound of the squeaky hinge, sees him, raises her hand in greeting.

"Where's Glenn?"

"He'll be along in a minute, chattin' with Hershel. Hope one of you don't mind keepin' me company for a few minutes," he waits for Carol to say something suggestive, is almost disappointed when she doesn't, simply responds:

"I'll stay."

He glances over at Michonne, whose usual mask-like face has lines of sadness etched deeply in its planes. She looks up at Daryl.

"I'm real sorry about Merle," she rasps out. "I mean that."

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah. I'm sorry about Andrea, too."

Michonne nods, swipes a tear from her cheek. "They both died well. As well as you can in this dirty world," she grasps his shoulder for a second, drops her hand. Starts walking towards the roof's door.

"See you later, Carol. Thanks for everything. Now I gotta find someplace that's not crammed fulla people," she raises a hand in farewell to both of them.

"Someone else who's going to have to get used to a crowd," Carol says from behind him. She always knows.

"Rick did what he thought was right," Daryl turns and walks over to her.

"I don't disagree. It's just that we suddenly went from not very many to a hell of a lot more. All those kids…" she trails off, looking somehow both strong and vulnerable in the oversized fatigue jacket she's wearing. She's thinking about Sophia, he knows.

"Alright?" He steps slightly closer, so their sides bump against each other.

"Oh, sure," she says. "She knocks me over when I least expect it. Never sure when it'll happen. She's always here, always. But sometimes, she's _more _here, if that makes any sense. And seeing those kids troop off that bus…"

He nods, thinking of all of the spaces that the dead have left in them. What she'd said to him, when he'd returned, with Merle. People fill those hollow parts in each others' hearts. But…it's more than that. It was honoring those spaces. Deserving them. To not only die well, but live well.

He puts his arm around her without thinking about it, and she falls against him, so naturally. Her arms around his neck again, reminding him of the day, in the woods, with her fierce beauty. But this time…

She does not bury her face in his neck. She stares up at him, her grey eyes clear, shining with tears. He can feel her heart beating through her back, through her coat. Something shifts in her expression, and a crease appears between her eyes. She is intent, searching. Her hand slides from his neck to his raspy cheek, her thumb brushing over his upper lip. A smile appears, as if this, _this_ is just what she was looking for.

She is on her toes, her whole body reaching up and towards him, and her lips are on his. His hand, flat on her back, presses her closer. The kiss is equal parts promise and passion, and now Daryl understands:

_This._

_This is it._

_To live._

_To die._

_And to do it as well as you can. _

~Fin~


End file.
